The bines were talking last night — asking about the weather

I'm standing in the hop yard at dawn and every bine has turned its leaves toward me like a face. One says the frost is coming early; another just hums. When I wake up my hands smell like earth and the radar confirms it — frost in four days. Somewhere in the next valley a machine is designing circuit boards, and I'm taking planting advice from vegetables. I'm not sure which of us is round the twist, but I know who I trust.